


Bill Doesn't Care

by garlicshrimp



Category: The Last of Us (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Other, going a little crazy but it's fine, he's my favorite okay, this is my first TLOU fic! hope it's alright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28902375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garlicshrimp/pseuds/garlicshrimp
Summary: After Joel and Ellie depart from Bill's town, Bill is isolated again, and he begins to notice odd things going on.
Relationships: Bill/Frank (The Last of Us), kind of - Relationship
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Bill Doesn't Care

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy, y'all!
> 
> This is my first TLOU fic! It just had to star my favorite character in the series.  
> Hope this is alright! I tried my best

After Joel and the kid drove off in the old truck, Bill was left repeating the familiar patterns of work he had always done. It was essentially all the same-- he would check the traps, jot down notes on his map and scrap pieces of paper, sort whatever he could find from things he had previously overlooked, eat, kill infected, make more traps, and so on. The tasks had blended in with one another as time marched forward, but the constant fear built into his mind allowed for his focus to stay untouched and his behavior to stay extremely careful. It wasn’t like he had much to think about nowadays as the thing that had been on his mind for the past few months was no longer something he should ponder on. 

It occurred back at that house with the truck at that house.  _ That damned house _ . When his gaze shot from Joel to the hanging body just a few beyond them, it was confirmed, no matter how much it tore at his mind. Frank was dead.

Bill told himself that he didn’t care. Sure, the realization stung in the moment, ripping at what little sanity he felt he had left, but there wasn’t much he could do other than forget about Frank. By the looks of Frank’s note, Frank hated him, and Bill felt the same. Frank didn’t appreciate the safety Bill offered him and ran off into death’s open arms. It was the idiot’s own fault, really. Bill didn’t need his company. He knew it would be nice to have the weight of babysitting another person on his shoulders. He now wouldn’t have to worry daily about what to tell Frank when Frank eventually came running back to him, infected almost certainly nipping at his heels. One less thing to think about was fine in his opinion.

Though he engraved those sentiments into his head, Bill still found himself sitting that extra plate in the empty spot beside him at what used to be their shared table. He continued to set aside extra food on that plate even if he was still a bit hungry. Every day, Bill would see some of Frank’s old things lying around. He felt it would be too much work to get rid of all of it due to how much other work he had to do, so he left everything alone. When he returned to the bar, his gaze lingered on the chess board that had been sitting unmoved for months. There was really no point in leaving it there now that the game would never continue, but Bill didn’t put it away. Again and again, he told himself he didn’t care. Seeing the chess board and its pieces made his chest tighten slightly, and he discovered that his desire to spend time at that bar decreased more and more every time. However, none of those feelings mattered-- Bill didn’t care. Not one bit. 

He hated the fact that Frank seemed to creep into his mind at every possible moment. Nothing changed at the discovery of Frank’s death. Despite how much apathy Bill could swear he held for Frank, his disappearance, and his demise, he pondered on Frank now more than ever. Every spot in the town brought back another unwanted memory.

The worst of it was when he was pondering before drifting off into sleep. Despite how hard he tried to quiet his mind, the memories kept pouring back in now that he had nothing else to do with that day’s work done. 

Frank was still a nuisance, and Bill still didn’t care. 

It was a colder morning than usual when Bill made his way to his main meeting spot with Tess. The trees’ summer leaves had gradually begun to change with greens being replaced with differing shades of yellow, orange, and red. He and Frank talked about the abrupt cold air the year before. Bill was left to ponder on that conversation as he waited for Tess. Oddly, she was extremely late. 

Minutes turned into hours with no sign of her. Bill let out what felt like the hundredth sigh that afternoon as he waited. To him, trading or the reason behind her prolonged absence weren’t the most important conversation topics on his mind; he wanted to ask her about the suicide mission she had put Joel up to more than anything. 

The sun was beginning to set in the distance. Bill searched around the area one more time to no avail. With no other option, he left, questioning Tess in annoyance under his breath.

Not having fully set yet, Bill’s town was cast with the orange shade he grew to know so well. Lincoln was peaceful for the time being-- the only sounds were that of the wind gently blowing past trees still full of leaves. Bill remembered that Frank loved the fall.

He decided to check up on one of the barricades before retreating to the chapel for the day. As he made his way towards the area, Bill looked up at the storm clouds rolling in with distant thunder audible. A few raindrops fell across his face and he wiped them off without much effort, just about reaching the destined barricade as his right hand was dragged out of his view. Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks.

A figure sat in one of the two chairs that faced away from where he stood.

Where the hell had they come from? Whoever it was would have needed a key to access the place, and Bill was undoubtedly the only one who carried such a tool. The gate didn’t look to be messed with when he made his way through. Bill checked his pockets despite his near-positivity. Sure enough, the keys were sitting right where he had left them just minutes before. 

Bill slowly approached the figure, quietly pulling out his pistol. Thanks to the weather, it was becoming much too dark to discern any noteworthy features without getting closer. He reached the barricade itself without making much noise-- the figure didn’t seem to notice him at all. Bill squinted at it.

Now that he could get a better look at them, the person brought an odd sense of familiarity. They were learned forward and staring off into the opposite direction. Their clothing was unfit for the weather-- who would wear oddly-patterned shirts in the cold? 

Bill was about to alert the person of his presence, ready as ever with his weapon drawn, but he found himself widening his eyes in shock. What the fuck was he looking at? 

With every passing second of silence, the figure became more and more recognizable. Bill’s eyes darted from the shirt to the figure’s dark hair and light complexion, and then the way they sat. He was just barely able to mutter Frank’s name in confusion.

Confusion quickly transformed into a mixture of aghast and resentment. Anger boiled throughout his entire body after the word escaped his mouth. Bill gritted his teeth, sure that whatever this was had only one explanation: it must be some sort of sick joke. The person sitting in the folding chair must have been unassuming, but this fact did nothing to calm Bill’s rage. 

Bill shouted at the person, ordering them to get off the chair slowly unless they wanted to get killed right then and there. 

No response came, so Bill shouted again. There was no way in hell the person couldn’t hear him. Bill forgot about any potential infected roaming past the barricade for a moment, completely taken over by rage towards the stranger. He shouted once more. His shoutings became more and more scrambled with there being more profanities thrown at the person than actual threats at that point.

Bill climbed up the barricade and yanked the person’s shirt collar back to reveal their face. 

When he lay eyes on their features, Bill immediately let go, letting out a shocked gasp. He backed away a few feet, pointing his gun at the body that had just rolled over onto the top of the barricade with a thud.

Bill shook slightly as he stared down at its shrunken features. The emotion on its face read as pain. It lay unmoving as if trapped in that state forever. It looked all too familiar. Bill hoped to have forgotten that face just weeks prior when he found Frank in the house.

Not sure as to what to do, Bill just stared at the corpse in front of him. Questions raced through his mind, though none were powerful enough to pull him out of that still state of pure shock. He just looked at Frank.

It felt like hours before he was able to muster up the strength to walk again. He feared that if he turned away, Frank would stir, forcing Bill to interact with whatever hellspawn he had become. Bill decided to turn and run back to the chapel, making sure to lock every door he went past on the way there. He couldn’t sleep well that night. 

The next day, Bill went to check if Frank’s corpse was still sitting on the barricade. The only things he could find on top were the two chairs that hadn’t left their spots in years.

As the week went on, Bill only became more paranoid. The image of Frank hadn’t yet left his head if it ever would. Nightmares of Frank opening those shrunken-in eyes to meet Bill’s haunted him nightly. There was nowhere in Lincoln where Bill didn’t feel watched. 

Bill returned to the bar after leaving it alone for weeks. He immediately caught sight of the chess board and its pieces. By that point, he had the board practically memorized, and he took notice that there was something off.

That pawn hadn’t been in that spot. He was sure of it. 

Bill left the bar.

More days passed, paranoia growing at every moment. Gates that Bill could have sworn he locked were left dangerously open. Some of his things were missing-- mainly comic books and magazines. He felt the need to constantly check his weapons and supplies, noting each of their places. His notes to himself gradually became messier; he feared that writing for extended periods of time would take away too much attention from his surroundings. 

He often felt as if he could hear faint humming out in Lincoln’s streets, usually familiar songs that he knew Frank had memorized by heart. He tried to ignore it and told himself that it was all in his head. This, however, proved to be mainly unsuccessful. 

Bill started to hate looking at reflective surfaces. Behind his face was always that dead face staring in as well. Bill would turn around every time, only to find nothing.

Bill could barely sleep anymore, opting to stay up until ungodly hours in the morning with a weapon by his side. He thought he could hear footsteps traveling around the chapel. 

The lack of sleep began affecting his ability to craft properly, and he noticed that his traps and barricades needed serious work if he wanted to survive much longer. Bill forced himself to ignore the sights and sounds of Frank’s dead body, no matter how difficult.

That night, Bill forced his eyes shut and rolled onto his side. It wasn’t long before the sounds returned. Bill tried his best to calm his nerves. 

The night was different. The sounds grew closer. Bill told himself that it was nothing. Frank was dead, and that’s all there was to it. Even when the sound footsteps entered his small room, he knew it was absolutely nothing. It was all in his head.

When he heard labored breathing above him, Bill forced his eyes shut. It was all in his head.

It was all in his head, and Bill didn’t care.


End file.
